


and we'll call this one self-indulgence

by thoughtwewerefriends



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, First Dates, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtwewerefriends/pseuds/thoughtwewerefriends
Summary: a series of sanders' sides one-shots requested of me by the lovely fanders over on mytumblr!never thought i'd do something like this, but here we are! ships, warnings, and characters will be tagged as i receive requests.





	1. in the bed, to the stars [analogical]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tumblr user aleiimm said: Analogical, first date?? I need soft boys!!_

“Okay. Alright. I’ll bite. What are we doing?”

There’s a sidelong glance cast from the driver’s seat, the hint of a smile at the corner of Logan’s lips as his fingertips slid along the cracks and crevices of the steering wheel. “I’ve already told you. It’s a surprise.”

He can’t see from this angle, but from the way Virgil turns his head to look out the window, the way that his arms cross resolutely over his chest, Logan can almost be certain that the other’s eyes are rolling. “I’ve already told _you_. I hate surprises. Can I, like, at least have a hint? A clue? A something?”

“You know, one would argue, contextually speaking, that a hint and a clue are exactly the same thing.” Logan shakes his head as Virgil aims a weary glance in his direction. “No. You may not have either.”

The truck struggles as it makes its climb up a particularly steep and daunting hill, and Logan lets out an imperceptible breath of relief when they crest it without issue. The pick-up is a hand-me-down, and while he does his very best to make sure it remains running until he can get his hands on the keys to the Kia that he’s been eyeing up for almost a year, it really is on its last legs. There are parts held together by little more than duct tape and a wish.

Sprawling fields line the roads on both sides, and something like wanderlust itches underneath Logan’s skin. Seeing the sky touch the earth so intimately out here, away from all of the lights and the sounds in the city, makes him want to walk to where the horizon meets the sky, let himself be pulled, upward and away, off to somewhere beyond the midnight blue. (Were these foolish thoughts? Perhaps, but he indulged in them, nonetheless, if only for the momentary reprieve from the disappointing monotony of life here, on Earth.)

Virgil shifts beside him, sits forward in his seat to look out at the sky as well, and Logan is reminded, suddenly, quickly enough to give him a headrush, that not everything here is monotonous, and _certainly_ not everything here is disappointing.

The truck is turned slowly onto a dirt road, and Virgil grips his seatbelt with both hands where it rests across his chest, sending another suspicious glance Logan’s way. “This is it, right?” he says, forging on before Logan has the chance to answer. “This is the part where you’re all, ‘it’s been great, Virge, but this is where you die.’ You’re totally about to go all slasher on me.” A glance in Virgil’s direction reveals a small smile. Good. Great. He isn’t being serious, then. “Never knew you had it in you.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that was your first mistake. Perhaps you should have been more careful about choosing the people with whom you spend your time.” Logan can’t help but to smile as well, shifting in his seat. After a few moments, he pulls the truck to a stop and puts it in park, cutting the engine. Virgil squints at him, but says nothing, only raising a single eyebrow when Logan says, “Get out.”

“Is this a joke, dude? You’re making me get out in the middle of nowhere, just to, what? Find my own way back? Sucky punchline.”

“No, Virgil, I’m.” Logan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, swinging the driver’s side door open. “I am _also_ getting out of the vehicle. We’ve arrived at our destination.”

“You sure about that?” Virgil gestures around them as he opens his own door. They are boxed in on all sides by a vast nothingness, a treeline just barely visible in the distance before them. “When I told you to pick the place, I thought you’d actually, you know. _Pick a place_.”

“This _is_ a place,” Logan insists, hopping out of the cab and onto the dirt below them. He makes his way to the back of the pick-up, dropping the tailgate open and hoisting himself up into the truck bed with a small grunt of effort. Pushing his glasses further up on the bridge of his nose, he sets to work immediately, shuffling forward on his knees toward the large box mounted just behind the cab. It’d once held his father’s toolbox, but when it is opened now, it’s packed to the absolute brim with blankets pilfered from the linen closet in the hall.

“What’s that?” comes Virgil’s voice, floating toward Logan from the back of the truck.

“You’ll see.”

Before long, the bed of the truck is converted from _hard_ and _plastic_ and _sort-of dusty_ to something closer to resembling a poorly-constructed nest of sorts. There are blankets, and Logan tosses a pillow in Virgil’s direction as he finishes up.

“Looking kind of cozy,” Virgil laughs, placing the pillow down on the truck bed, aiming a small, crooked smile Logan’s way.

“_Kind of_?’“

“Can’t say for sure ‘til I’ve experienced it, right?” Virgil pulls himself up, sneakers scuttling against the tailgate as he pushes himself forward onto his stomach, face planted against a pillow.

There’s a beat of silence. “Well?” Logan prompts.

“It’s definitely a truck bed,” Virgil answers, voice muffled into the pillowcase, and Logan’s face nearly falls before Virgil turns to look up at him, giving him the softest of smiles. “It’s nice, L. Really nice.”

Logan clears his throat, glancing away for a moment, before laying himself out beside Virgil, who immediately turns onto his back. “Forgive the cliche,” he says, suddenly _extremely_ self-aware. “I simply thought you would enjoy this. Star-gazing seems like something that is well within your range of interests, and --”

“Logan,” Virgil says with a laugh, kicking the toe of his sneaker against Logan’s, shaking his head. “This is good. This is really cool.”

“Good. Right. Um.” Logan falls silent for a moment, staring up at the stars as if they might have the answer, as if something would be written there for him to read, a map, telling him what exactly to do next. Instead, he lifts a hand, beginning to point out various constellations in the vast expanse of sky above them.

Virgil listens quietly, nodding, pulling one leg up to bend at the knee and kicking his other leg up onto it, foot bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm. After a solid ten minutes of Logan’s rambling, he cuts in. “Wait, where’s Lacerta again?” he asks.

“There,” Logan says, pointing. 

Virgil squints, eyes searching. “Wait, where?”

“_There_,” Logan says, circling the constellation with his index finger. He freezes in place when Virgil’s head moves from the pillow underneath him and onto his shoulder, casually, without mention. “Just on the other side of Pegasus.”

Virgil nods, and nods again, before shaking his head. Logan can feel every movement, the entire way down his arm. “Nah, sorry, still not getting it.”

After a moment of hesitation, Logan shifts, hand moving to lace its fingers between Virgil’s, pressing their index fingers together and lifting them, using them to jointly point toward the sky. “Pegasus,” he says, voice softer now, “and Lacerta, there.”

He turns his head just the barest amount, peeking at Virgil from the corner of his eye, and even outside of the frames of his glasses, Virgil’s smile comes into crystalline focus.

“Got it,” Virgil murmurs.

He squeezes Logan’s hand.


	2. watching you, watching me, watching you [prinxiety]

“He’s gonna catch ya one of these days, y’know.”  


Virgil jumps, whipping around toward the source of the voice, fight-or-flight kicked into high gear at the realization that he’s been _caught_. Standing behind the bench is Patton, all sunshiney smiles, arms folded behind his back, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He bounces a bit as Virgil glares at him, straightening his glasses, tipping his head just a bit to the side.

“Might already be onto you,” Patton continues, shrugging his shoulders.  


“He’s not onto me,” Virgil says, firmly, with a confidence that doesn’t reach the whole way down into his chest, eyes turning back toward the current object of his attention. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”  


Patton rounds the bench of the bus stop, sinking down to perch beside Virgil, turning his eyes forward, as well.

Across the street is a dance studio, the front wall made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind the glass, there is a dance class in session, and, front and center, beaming at his reflection in the mirror as his body sweeps gracefully through the air, is _him_.

Roman Prince.

It sounds creepy on paper, and he knows it does, really. Sitting at the bus stop for an hour, three times a week, just to watch someone dance? Creep City. Bordering on stalking, right? Right. In another life, maybe, Virgil would approach Roman as he leaves the studio, shuffle up to him and say...something. (_I love the way you dance_, maybe, or, _would you maybe wanna call me sometime?, _or, _I think you’re the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen and you kinda make my heart melt into goo, can I cook you dinner, or whatever_?) This isn’t that life, though. This is the life where Virgil struggles to order his regular mocha in the morning from the coffee shop where everyone knows him by name. This is the life where he’d be more content being alone than he would be having to go out and actually _get_ the man of his dreams.

This is the life where he averts his eyes as the class lets out and dancers filter out onto the street, for fear of actually being noticed.

Patton nudges him with his elbow as the bus approaches, flashes him a warm little smile. “Maybe I’ve got a man on the inside.”

Virgil’s eyes widen. In fear? (Something like hope flutters behind his chest, like a baby bird with broken wings.) “What do you _mean_ you’ve got a man on the inside?”

Patton shrugs, rocking a bit on the bench, popping up to his feet and flagging down the bus. “I guess you’re gonna see!”

“_Pat_,” Virgil says through gritted teeth, sitting forward in his seat, fingers curling around the lip of the cracking wood, knuckles white with his grip. “What’s that supposed to _mean_?”  


Patton grins, blowing an exaggerated kiss in Virgil’s direction as the bus doors slide open, hopping up the stairs before any more questions could be aimed in his direction.

Shit. _Shit_.

The bus pulls away, and Virgil watches it go until it turns the corner before aiming his gaze back toward the dance studio. It’s empty now, mostly, but as the last few students filter out, Virgil can still hear the sound of music playing inside. Roman is the only one still there, still dancing, and Virgil hazards a glance toward his phone screen. He’ll have to catch the next bus to get home in time for dinner, but that still gives him another eight minutes, right? Thirteen, if he watches, and then walks over to the next block to catch the bus on another route.

(Is this obsessive? This is obsessive, right?)

When he looks up again, he nearly jumps out of his skin. Crossing the street toward him, staring directly at him, is a guy that Virgil recognizes from the studio, and maybe from hanging out with Patton, but he can’t for the life of him remember his name.

He fumbles in a pocket of his dance bag as he approaches, producing a folded slip of paper and thrusting it into Virgil’s personal space. “Here,” he says, tone flat and cool as he adjusts his glasses. “I have been instructed to give this to you.”

Virgil hesitates, but reaches out to pluck the paper from the stranger’s hands, nodding once, stiffly. “Uh. Thanks.”

There’s a roll of blue eyes, and then the dude is turning away, heading off down the street.

Virgil shakes it off, glances back at the paper folded up in the palm of his hand, sizing it up as if it’s most certainly a death sentence. He should have asked who it’s from, what it says, if he’s, like, _doomed_, or something. Slowly, he unfolds the piece of paper. It appears to be a flyer of some sort for a dance showcase, put on by the dance studio. Seemingly harmless. Upon closer inspection, though, there’s definitely some sloping, curling script scrawled in the margins.

_Turn me over_, it reads, and Virgil is quick to obey.

_I’m watching you, watching me. Come on over and say hello?_

Virgil’s eyes shoot immediately to the window of the studio, where Roman is fiddling with the sound system on the other side of the glass, tapping away at his phone screen. His brown eyes lift, just for a moment, but drop quickly. Is that the hint of a smile on his face? Just there, at the corner of his lips? It can’t be, right? Something small and secret, and maybe actually meant for Virgil to see?

Those eyes lift again, and this time they stare, intense and insistent, and Virgil _knows_ that he’s been caught. Maybe he can skip town. Change his name, get a new social security card. His insides are a solid block of ice, and they do not thaw when Roman smiles again, beckons him closer with the lazy curl of a finger as he turns away, striding slowly back across the floor.

Virgil sits still while his guts tie themselves into quadruple-knots, and then draws himself up onto shaky feet, wobbling knees, taking slow and measured steps across the street. His hand rests on the door of the studio, and before he has time to think, to draw out an elaborate list of pros and cons, he pulls it open and slips inside, as quietly as he can.

Roman doesn’t say a word, just gestures toward a row of chairs set up in the far corner, meeting Virgil’s eye via his reflection in the mirror. It’s unnerving, and everything in Virgil is screaming for him to run, like his life depends on it, but he takes the seat anyway, sinking slowly into it, shoulders rounded. The music starts again, and Virgil realizes that now, here, he has a front row seat to watch Roman move, to watch the fluidity, the gracefulness of his limbs, to see the way his face changes with the music, all up close and personal, all at a distance that he can really _admire_.

Roman turns as the music comes to a stop, and his smile is wide and warm and welcoming in a way that Virgil has never experienced. "Critique, from my not-so-secret admirer?" he asks, bowing with an exaggerated flourish. The laugh he lets out when Virgil stares back at him in silence, eyes wide as dinner plates, is likely the sweetest thing that’s ever deigned itself to grace Virgil’s ears. “Come on, then, you,” he says, pulling a sweatshirt down over the loose-fitted tank top he wears to dance classes, "we’ve got places to go.”

“Places to go,” Virgil repeats, slowly.

Roman’s smile peeks from the collar of the hoodie, perfect, the sort that poet’s pour their souls out for. “You’ve been sneaking free shows for weeks,” he says. “It’s the _least_ you can do.”

Virgil’s heart fills like a hot-air balloon, shuddering behind his ribs.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> if this tickled your fancy, please feel free to drop into my [ask box](http://coolsomewhereelse.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr or drop a comment here to request something from me! i'll write pretty much anything except extreme angst! :)


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